


I just want your kiss, boy

by spacecuppa (EmmaLikesTheInternet)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Klance, Fluff, Humour, M/M, Pining, Theatre, Voltron au, actor!lance, boys in like, dedicated to that cute drama boy i had a crush on november, drama queen!lance, fuck yeah theatre, i adore you and your sexy jawline, i love the theatre, kissin, klance, klance theatre au, maybe even a lil snogging, my first klance!, pure klance, stage manager!keith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-22 07:37:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13162320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmaLikesTheInternet/pseuds/spacecuppa
Summary: Keith is a long-suffering stage manager. Lance is a remarkably obnoxious actor. One day, Keith decides Lance may not be as bad as he presumed. It snowballs.or: apparently you don't need three ghosts to tell you that Christmas is alright.(work title: Pumpkin Soup by Kate Nash)





	I just want your kiss, boy

**Author's Note:**

> merry christmas! (this was supposed to be up by christmas eve, but i underestimated how much i needed to write. kill me.)
> 
> so! i was in Fame this year and i simultaneously loved and hated it. write what you know, innit.
> 
> thanks and enjoy!!!

01: EMPTY STAGE, MORNING  
The Verity Theatre was crumbly, charming, and also the bane of Keith’s existence.

Keith’s first problem was, he worked there. He’d never even wanted the job in the first place; actors were bastards, and he’d stab a lighting designer in the throat given half the chance. However, he’d been unemployed and Shiro had dropped a few adult-y words about responsibility and opportunity and all of a sudden Keith was stage manager. And for some bastard actors, no less.

The second problem was, he was unfairly good at the job. Even menial tasks were challenging when you basically had an entire production upon your shoulders, but Keith’s gut instinct pulled him through all those split-second decisions. And, his stony features (years of public schooling went into that one) meant that the team was scared shitless of him -all aside from the actors, because they were bastards.

Also, it was an unfairly fulfilling job. Keith was a creative person at heart; as a kid, he’d fixate on projects, any sort of drive that’d keep him going. He whittled out nonsensical novellas, homemade a sci-fi movie, even banged out the odd play himself; all before the age of ten. He’d loved staying up in the local library, armed with heavy books and the slow-moving computer, doing research for school. He could’ve been something great.

Trouble is, he hadn’t had a stable home for most his childhood. Those beloved projects were soul-sucking, when he was being bounced between foster homes, so they ended and he lost himself in distractions. But that’s a different story.

Being stage manager gave him the chance to be a part of something without scrutiny, and he loved that far more than he’d care to admit.

Keith’s third problem was named Lance McClain.

Lance was, of course, a bastard arrogant piece of arse actor from the deepest pits of hell, yet somehow so much worse. They’d been working together three weeks; the show hadn’t even opened yet; and yet Lance won Keith’s coveted Least Favourite Person award. He even beat Pidge, the lighting designer. Keith hated lighting designers.

There was just something so deeply infuriating about him.

In his role as stage manager, Keith demanded a certain amount of respect. That was only fair, right? Keith was the first there and the last to leave. He chaperoned the cast like they were children, he always did as told, he was held accountable for everything that went wrong, and he got precisely none of theatre’s glory. He wasn’t even paid much.

Lance, however. Lance was a massive diva, whose talents included monologues (on and off-stage) and irking Keith. He was so argumentative, obnoxious, loud, rude. All to be expected; theatre kids, and such; but must he direct all of this at Keith?

“Hey, Keith, auditioning for Stranger Things today?” Lance was smirking, which Keith interpreted as a bad omen.

“What? I don’t act.”

“The mullet, smart-arse. You’d fit right in with the 80s nostalgia. You know, Fame’s playing down the road, they might appreciate the authenticity. Help get the actors in the zone, all that.”

Keith scowled darkly at him. “There is nothing wrong with my hair.” He could hear the growl in his own voice.

“Yeah, sure, I bet you get all the girls.” Lance’s eyes were wide and mocking, his mouth twisted with humour. Keith made a motion towards him and the director clapped his hands.

“Alright, ladies, settle down.” The director was an eccentric man named Coran; bright orange hair that couldn’t be natural, and a fantastical moustache. He was, well, a character.

Pidge raised her hand. “As a lady, I take offence to that, Coran.”

“Of course, Pidge, my sincerest apologies. Now, gather round, we’ve got to just whiz through the itinerary and get this thing moving. Keith?”

“Right. Uh, so we open tomorrow so we have to do as many runs as possible. Our tech is fine, but we need to make sure, so expect some delays. Lunch is one til two, provided nothing goes wrong.” He shot a scathing look at Lance, because it’d be just like him to mess everything up. “Any problems with props, cues, scene changes etc, come to me.”

Lance scoffed, indignant at Keith’s passive aggression. “You’re only stage manager, who told you to lord over us?”

“Uh, Coran did?” Keith rolled his eyes.

The others, apparently tired with Lance and Keith’s exchange, broke away chatting to begin the first act. Allura, the lead actress whom everyone was constantly trying to pull, put a hand on each of their shoulders. Lance’s skin flushed. Of course, he was no different.

“Couldn’t you two at least try not to bicker all the time? After all, it’s Christmas.”

And, there it was. Keith’s fourth and final problem.

He hated Christmas to quite an acute degree. And, unlike the numerous therapists insisted, not every single one of Keith Kogane’s problems were due to some sort of deep-set trauma. No, he actually didn’t mind the family aspect of the holiday; everything else was just fake as fuck. That’s all.

Keith didn’t like to be told what to do, and he especially didn’t like being told to be happy because some guy who said nice things was born 2,000 years ago. He also despised shopping; capitalism and an obligation to cheer equalled his worst nightmare.

“It’s the first of December. And, anyway, would it be ironic to say I don’t like Christmas? I don’t really follow Christianity.”

Lance and Allura both looked at him like he’d just strangled a kitten. “You don’t like Christmas? Keith, man, I actively oppose Christianity; I am organised religion’s force to be reckoned with; and I still adore Christmas!”

“It’s fine if you don’t celebrate Christmas. But, aren’t the lights and the festivities and the spirit simply delightful? We never had this sort of thing at home, I love it!” Allura’s face was lit up with wonder, and Keith understood what everyone loved about her.

“I’ve always said it’s a pity you don’t act, Keithy.” Lance slung a friendly arm around his shoulders, flashing his fucking Flirtatious Grin Trademark at Allura. “We all know what role you’d have nabbed. Bah Humbug!”

The two of them laughed as if this was the most hilarious joke in the world. Another note on actors: any sort of reference to the current show immediately transcended regular, decent humour and became the funniest thing they’d ever heard. It pissed Keith off beyond words.

Bah Humbug indeed. A Christmas Carol opened tomorrow, and Keith was praying for his life.

-

“You’re not very good at pantomiming indifference, you know.”

Positioned in the wings, fervently watching the action on stage, Keith broke focus to shoot Lance a scowl. He was right, of course. Who’d have known he was transparent enough?

Lance sighed, leaning his whole body against the stripped brick walls. At last, Keith turned his full attention, watched the tension in his body as the stage lights danced across his face. In the half-light, the usually sharp edges of his face were soft and kind of perfect.

“I’ll level with you, Keith. I kind of fancy Allura.”

“There’s a surprise.” Lance was craning his neck to see past the gathered curtain, watching her on stage, no doubt. Admittedly, she was gorgeous in her floor-length, Victorian-style dress.

Keith’s gaze didn’t waver from Lance’s face. “If she’s upset by us fighting, then I want to change that. So, I was wondering if you wanted to grab a coffee this afternoon?”

Keith froze, and his breath caught. There was just something…it was nothing, really, it wasn’t even implied heavily, but there was just something about the wording of Lance’s proposal and the carful way his eyes met his own that made it sound like a date.

Keith barked out a laugh at the accidental wording. Lance McClain, straightest theatre boy in history (oxymoron?), conspiring with his arch nemesis to get the girl, asking him out. That’d be the day.

Curse his awkward blush. There was nothing weird about what Lance had just said.

“Sure, man, I understand. It’s not like I want to argue all the time, you’re just annoying.”

“I’m pretending I didn’t hear that.”

Keith chuckled. “I’ll go if you buy me a hot chocolate.”

“Deal.” Lance’s head whipped to the stage at his cue. “Well, this is me, Kogane. Catch you later.”

He saluted. Keith watched as his demeanour transformed onstage; bouncy, gangly Lance McClain becoming the meek, reserved Bob Cratchit. You could’ve pinpointed the moment Lance became someone else; it was nothing short of incredible.

-

02: DANDILION CAFÉ, LUNCHTIME  
Walking out of the theatre was a shock to the system; the cosy bubble gave way to a bitter wind.

“Shit,” Keith breathed, rubbing his hands together to warm them. “Shit shit shit shit.”

Lance grinned smugly from behind his fifty scarves. “C’mon, dingbat. Café’s this way.”

“Don’t call me dingbat, dingbat!” Keith squinted to catch up with Lance, eyes streaming. The Christmas lights melted together below his eyelids, dancing dizzily, and he couldn’t help but think it beautiful.

“Sorry, dingbat.” Keith couldn’t see shit, but he could visualise Lance’s condescending little smirk.

“Slow down!” Lance’s short puffs crystallised in the chill air. He swung open a shop door, wave of orange warmth hitting them both. A bell jingled.

“So, how’d you get into theatre?” From the way he marched up to the queue, Keith was guessing he already knew his order.

“My brother,” Keith answered, straining to see the tiny text on the board. “He’s called Shiro. He used to do technical stuff at the Verity.”

“Shiro! I remember him, he did Oliver with us.”

“So your talents are limited to Charles Dickens characters.” This earnt Keith an elbow in the ribs.

“So, you’re Shiro’s brother, huh?” Keith could feel Lance’s eyes study him. He held his breath, fixating on the gingerbread men bunting above the machines. “That figures.”

“Technically, no. He’s just…sort of my brother. We’re not related.” Keith willed Lance to drop it. Lance dropped it.

“Do you want one of the Christmas drinks? They look proper sexy,” Lance hummed, a smile playing across his lips.

Keith laughed out loud. “Are you serious? Please never say that again.”

“Well, someone’s clearly never tried a, uh…” Lance squinted to deciver the fancy text on the board. “Candy Cane Latte.”

“Ew. I’ll stick with hot chocolate, thanks.” Lance rewarded Keith with a grin.

“One large hot chocolate and the usual, thanks, Shay. How’s the grandmother?”

Shay tapped at the cashier. “She is doing wonderful, thank you! The doctor says she should be out in time to see the play, we’re all looking forward to it immensely!”

Lance paid, grinning; and, it wasn’t just the flirting face he put on. It was genuine. “Tough as old boots, that lady.”

“We are hoping to go to dinner with Hunk, as a family, afterwards. He does not know yet, so keep it a secret!”

“That’s great, Shay! Not a word, Scout’s honour. He’ll love that, though.” Shay laughed, a tinkering sound. “Take care, yeah? I’ll see you soon, hopefully.”

The barista flourished. “One medium Banoffee Frappe Surprise with extra cream for Lance, one large hot chocolate for Lance’s hot date.”

Keith blushed furiously, wishing he had a scarf (or seven) like Lance to hide behind. Really, it had nothing to do with who he was with; it was just because, it’s been ages since he last dated, and he didn’t go out the house or theatre much, and he’d never even done much fluffy romance stuff, so. He was inexperienced. Being mistaken for Lance’s date was awkward.

He was about to correct them, but Lance had both their drinks precariously in hand and was waving to Shay. Keith took one breath, two. Thankfully, the flush was fading.

They found a table amidst the lunchtime bustle, and Lance began unwrapping his many, multi-coloured scarves. “Your hot chocolate, my lord.”

“You didn’t have to pay for this. Thanks.” To avoid eye contact, Keith took a huge gulp and promptly burnt a hole in his tongue.

Blowing frantically, he doubled over in pain as Lance cried with laughter. “Shut up! Shut up! At least I’ve got a normal drink, and not whatever rich white girl shit you have. Sorry but, didn’t think this was Starbucks!”

“Oi! I was going to go get you some water, but now I’m reconsidering.” Lance crossed his arms like a fed-up toddler, and Keith felt his mouth curling at the corners against his will.

Once the burning in his mouth had dulled to a faint warmth, Keith spoke.

“So. Tell me about this crush of yours on Allura.”

Maybe it was the clash of personalities that brought about such easy conversation; but, Lance could talk for England, and they filled the lunch hour with chatter. When Keith caught sight of the clock, his hot chocolate was stone cold and only half-finished.

They ran all the way back to the Verity and Keith didn’t feel the cold.

“You know, I’m quite proud of us. We’ve managed to go a whole hour without fighting.”

“Apart from when you called me a dingbat twice and laughed when I burnt myself.”

“Well, you called me a dingbat back, and insulted my drink, so I think we can consider ourselves even.” Lance grinned widely, then disappeared into the changing room for the second run.

Keith exhaled. So, it turned out Lance McClain wasn’t so bad after all.

-  
03: DRESSING ROOM A, EVENING  
Maybe they would’ve remained tentative acquaintances if not for the happenings of the first night.

Keith was stressed. Keith was neck-deep in a thick and steaming stress-pool, and damn Allura’s saintly message of Christmas, he was going to punch a crater in Lance McClain’s stupid face.

“-told him so many times to be stage right for the five minute call, he’s clearly taking the piss. He’s nowhere near the stage, but I saw him for Coran’s notes, he can’t have wandered far, it’s like looking after- HAVE YOU SEEN LANCE?” he all but screamed in Pidge’s face. She shook her head warily, and Keith went back to muttering like a madman.

He reached the dressing room, slamming the door open. “There you are, you little- are you crying?”

Lance was sat, cross-legged and wooden, on a makeup table, silent tears streaming down his face. He barely looked at Keith, blue eyes usually full of mirth and teasing instead blank. Unseeing.

Oh.

All of Keith’s vexation flowed right through him and spilled onto the floor. He approached the scrunched-up boy hesitantly, as if he were a live bomb and could go off any moment.

“Lance? Are you okay? Can you hear me?”

“Yeah.” Lance’s voice broke with the strain, so he tried again. “Yeah.”

Keith had dealt with hysterical cast members a thousand times, but…this was Lance. He never knew how to deal with Lance.

“What’s the matter? Is there anything I can do?”

Lance wiped furiously at the tear tracks, offering an unconvincing smile. “I’m fine. I’m just nervous, I guess, and this is- this is the first show without my mum.” He tightened his lips, shook his head, squeezed his eyes. “She used to come to all of my plays. Be sitting in the front row.”

Keith shook at the sight before him. Never before could he pinpoint, so easily, so exactly, a human being’s breaking point- but Lance was so, so worn down. He made a living from pretending. This rawness was precious and destroying. “But why would you care? Never mind. I’ll be out in a moment.”

“Why would I care? Because this show is important. Because you are important. Okay? I’m not your villain, I care about you. I thought you were perceptive enough to figure that out.”

Lance shook his head, desperately, desperately.

“Look at me,” said Keith, because he needed to see Lance. He obeyed, and his eyes were watery with unshed tears and shame. “Don’t be ashamed. Please don’t.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Lance was shaking with effort.

“We need you, right now. We need you to smile and shine under those lights, we need you to make the people out there laugh and cry and think. And I know this is the worst possible time to ask that of you; but I think you need it too.”

In that moment, Keith made an unheard vow to make it easier for this gentle vision before him. Because, dammit, they may only be pretending to get on for Allura’s sake (or rather; for Lance’s infatuation), but Keith wasn’t stupid.

It’s like, when you look at a face and tell that they feel the hurt all the way to their toes. And, it came along as a shock; but sometimes Keith needed a reminder that every person he met was human.

A toast to the humans.

Lance’s voice was still weak, but less desperate. “You’re right. Thanks, Keith.”

Keith nodded, helping him up. “At least try to look like you’re having fun?”

His face split in two. “Oh, believe me, I’m having the time of my life. The emotional breakdowns are all a part of the ride.”

 

-

04: DRESSING ROOM B, AFTERNOON  
The show had been running for a week, now, and Keith’s selective memory had glossed over the many bumps in the road. All Keith knew was that getting to the curtain call was all that mattered and nothing else in the world was real.

The sweet chaos of the dressing room was a sight for sore eyes. Makeup brushes, clothes hangers, missing props; sound and colour and enough hairspray to knock out a small child; it all reminded him of what the show meant. That he wasn’t slaving over nothing, that every cast and crew member cared to impossible acuteness.

“Hey, Allura! After last night, Coran wants you entering on the other side. That means you’ll-“

“What? I can’t hear you!”

“Scene Six! Enter the other side!” Keith added wild and dodgy-looking gestures.

Allura groaned. “Just come here!”

Keith ventured past a few topless women, before reaching Allura and explaining the last-minute changes. “Oh, that’s fine, I already knew all that.”

“Fucks sake. He always has me on a wild goose chase.”

“Do you mind doing up my dress?” Keith obligingly helped her fasten it over her narrow shoulders. He felt like a lady-in-waiting, which was fine. “So, you and Lance have been getting on better.”

“That’s right. He’s perfectly nice when he’s not being a dickhead.”

Allura chuckled. “You sure three ghosts didn’t visit you in the night?”

“You’re not funny. Break a leg, yeah?” Keith turned to rush off on his next mission. God, he needed a nap. And an espresso.

“All in the Christmas spirit!”

Smiling behind him, he barely noticed Lance til he ran straight into him.

“Hey, what were you doing in the girls’ dressing room? Whenever I go in there, they all yell at me to fuck off.” A hilarious mental image.

“That’s cos you’re a perv.” Lance thwacked him. “But seriously. It’s cos Shiro told Allura I was gay and she spread it to all of her theatre friends. They don’t mind me being in there.”

“You’re gay?” Lance’s expression was unreadable.

“Well. Yeah. IS that a problem?” God’s sake, Lance may have been a typical straight boy, but he worked in fucking theatre. If he was homophobic, Keith was fully going to slap him. And God.

“Of course it’s not a problem! Jesus. I just didn’t realise.” The Lance-grin was back. “I’m bi, anyway.”

What?

“It would be stupid if I had a problem with it!” he continued. “What I was going to say, was, I know this past week has been super busy, but I’m sorry for not doing this sooner. Thank you for helping me out, that night in the dressing room.”

Keith hummed. “It was no problem.” Lance was bi?

“Seriously. Sometimes I need someone to tell me to smile, because I’ve got the best job in the whole fucking world.” Lance was beaming, and Keith felt kind of blessed.

But seriously? Bi as in bisexual? Bi as in girls and boys?

“I have to go now. See you out there.”

“Right,” said Keith absently. Jesus, did he need to pull himself together.

-

05: FLAT 32C, NIGHT  
Knowledge is power, and knowledge never fails to fuck Keith up. Because, knowing assumed straight boy Lance was fine, was no big deal. And, nothing about him had changed; but possibilities, the future, everything had.

Keith’s brain was in an odd place. Nothing was being processed, they were halfway through, the world was slowly imploding, he loved it.

They’d found a steady rhythm. Next to nothing went wrong, and any mistakes were glossed over by the sheer, unbridled talent of Keith’s people.

Keith’s dying brain also had an apparent measure of sentimentality. Which was why he’d agreed to a cast slash Christmas party.

They had Sunday off, so backstage was filled with excited chatter about getting absolutely hammered. Only the finest for the Verity’s talent. Lance was especially excited when Keith gave in to Allura’s badgering; went as far as to threaten a karaoke machine, God forbid.

When Keith and Shiro (honorary guest whom everyone fancied) wandered in with Tesco champagne, the party was well under way.

Keith observed, bemused, as the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come snogged Mrs Cratchit, a drunk Allura shoved pizza slices into Hunk’s mouth, and- oh God. Lance actually did had a karaoke machine.

“Shiro. We’ve got to hide, I can’t let Lance see me.” Shiro shook his head fondly as Keith used him as a human shield from Lance’s all-seeing, blue-as-oceans eyes. Having a brother buffer than you came in handy, now and again.

“Keeeith!” Lance was intoxicated, and also had a firm grasp on him. “I’m so glad you’re here! I’ve been drinking since five. You _have_ to try out the karaoke machine with me!”

“Nope. I’m not making myself look like a tit in front of theatre people. Bet you’ve got the voice of a motherfucking angel.” Knowing Lance, he probably did. Unfair.

“You don’t need to worry about that! You already look like a tit. And I love tits!”

Keith rolled his eyes back so far, he could see his brain cells giving up. Lance was handing him a shot. Classy.

“Will you be the George to my Michael? After all, it’s Christmas!” He was pawing at his arm, for fuck’s sake.

“That doesn’t even- ugh, fuck it.” Keith knocked back the shot. Tasted like piss.

“That’s the spirit!” Here he was, being coerced into alcohol and social suicide by a pretty boy. Did anything ever change?

“I hate you so much.” He was being led again, to the front of the room. Everyone’s head turned with curiosity, and Keith prayed they wouldn’t remember this. God’s sake, he’d only been here five minutes.

Lance was squinting at the screen with a confusing offence; like it’d said something rude. “Says here Last Christmas isn’t a duet. I think the fuck not!”

Bemused, Keith handed Lance the working mic. If he sung quietly, overcompensated with dance; would anyone care?

The flaw in this plan was Lance. Lance sung like he had something to prove, and Keith loved it and its infection, and before he quite knew what was happening he was growing louder. Felt like the faces didn’t matter anymore; he couldn’t see them, anyway. All he could see was Lance.

“Oh my god, Keith, you can’t sing at all? You sound like…like a strangled cat with a nasty throat infection.” Keith couldn’t care less; middle finger shoved right in Lance’s face, he laughed. At himself, at Lance, at his voice breaks and Lance’s impromptu disco moves.

Lance caught his eye, twinkled with humour, like he knew a secret Keith didn’t. God, was he glad to be here, beside Lance. Every glance his way made the fuzzy feelings swell; every flourish and hair flick, every stumble on unsteady feet, every swelling smile and wavering note.

Lance.

-

Three hours later, Keith’s skin had a drunken flush, and he was sat on Lance’s legs. Lance had procured a red quilt, and was sipping a Bailey’s whilst John Lennon played faintly. Lamplight lit his features, caressed them, and with every breath he threw a shadow.

Keith found it remarkable how at peace he seemed. Finally quiet.

Once the karaoke had quietened down, Allura had put a pot on, and Keith had his hands wrapped around a mug of tea. His feet were tucked in between Lance’s legs, a shared corner of blanket across his knees. Lance was blinking sleepily, a paper crown from a cracker drooping on his brow.

The other sofa was occupied by Shiro, Allura and Pidge. Shiro had melded perfectly well (trust him), and he and Allura, who’d quietened down, were the snapshot of sophistication. His Letterman jacket (Keith had bought that as a joke, for god’s sake) was draped across her bare shoulders. Allura’s face glittered.

Pidge was settled sleepily between them, and would’ve looked like their child if not for the bottle in her hands. She seemed content. She was laughing.

Hunk and Shay shared an armchair, limbs tangled impossibly. Shay’s hair stuck up, and she was pressed against Hunk’s chest, eyes closed. Hunk was looking at her as if she was his entire world.

He felt like he was melting around the edges, fuzzy, warm. orange. Joining together with the bright sounds. All he could see was Lance, dozing. It was odd to think he’d once resented this picture of serenity.

“You’re looking at me.” Lance’s sounds were slurring.

“Yeah, I am.”

-

06: THE CORIDOR, EVENING  
Backstage quiet was unlike any other; a miracle in the corridor, when, during the interval, not a sound could be heard.

Keith loved silence. And, he loved this feeling, his station in the eye of the storm.

“Can I sit here?” It was Lance. His face was bright and burning with adrenaline. Stage fright. He sat down anyway.

“Some nights, I’d rather be at home. Which is crazy of me, because, look at this! I’m living the dream! I have to hold onto every moment.” Keith met his eyes, firmly. “But tonight, I just want to go home.”

“That’s okay,” said Keith. “If it’s perfect, it’s not real.”

“Yeah. I guess its about balancing the surreal and the shitty.” He sighed, gathering his long legs close to his chest.

Keith was overwhelmed, if just for a moment. It was an everlasting moment.

Lance’s profile was lit up from some light at the end of the corridor, softening him. Still beautiful. A brush of their shoulders spiralled Keith into hyperdrive, and there was something wonderful about the heat against his arm. It was proof; this boy beside him was real and alive and breathing, that even the most beautiful exist in tangible, flawed manners. Raw and careful and desperate living.

Keith told the truth, because when would he tell the truth otherwise? 

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“I’m glad I’m here.”

Keith breathed.

“Keith, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

The way he spoke. Like they weren’t already grown up. Like the future was a promise.

“I want to be a part of something and love it entirely. And, although doing shows is a nightmare, I guess this counts. Because knowing that I helped create something as extraordinary as tonight, and last night, and tomorrow night; well, it’s good. Even if I played the tiniest part.”

Keith couldn’t help but feel a bit weird, after that confession. The show didn’t belong to him, really. It only felt like it.

“The show is on your shoulders, Keith. You of all people deserve to be that proud.” Lance’s eyes were lit with some faraway light. He was laughing. “You know, one day, my name’ll be in lights, and so will yours. We’ll learn how to fly. You’ll get a Tony for being the most badass stage manager in the world.”

“Of course. Always the most sought over prize, is that one.”

So there they were, world at their feet. Two boys, side by side, in a corridor beside a stage. Alone, but by no means lonely.

Keith wanted this moment forever. But, he exhaled, if only for the promise of more forever moments.

“Do you want to see this drawing of Coran I did?”

-

07: THE FINAL NIGHT  
It was the final night.

Keith had felt the beginning of the end weeks ago; that deep and helpless feeling of staring into the void. But here it was, the very moment nobody ever talked about; the end of the end.

“So, we’ve done the matinee and the regular evening, but tonight, as a Christmas Eve slash final night special, we’re doing an extra! In essence, our encore; equally as exciting and contrived.” Coran smiled to himself. “The theatre want us out by midnight so we can be in bed for Santa. And, well, I’d just like to say how proud I am of you all.”

“Coran, before you get started on the pep talk I can tell is coming on, I have some words.” Allura stood, placed a hand on his arm. “You’ve drilled into us from the start to remember our professionalism; I remember even when I was fourteen, in the school show, you forbade the poor drama teacher from doing thank yous at the end.” Everyone chuckled. Sounded like Coran. “Well, this time, I think you’re due a massive thank you, professionalism be damned. So, before we go to the dressing rooms, we’d all like to express our immense gratitude to the work you’ve put in.”

And…yes, okay, no surprise there, Coran was tearing up. You couldn’t fault him for being a constant. Every last night, without fail; nothing ever changes.

“I know, I know, this is your job. You get paid to badger us. But, you’re the reason this is our job too; you’re the reason everyone in this room can continue making a living doing what they love. Thank you a million times. You’re a warrior; every sleepless night, every early morning, we see that. You care about this show probably more than is healthy, so I believe it is our duty to completely smash tonight! Keith, would you?”

Everyone was smiling. Keith went to the front of them all, handed flowers and wine to a blubbering Coran; Lance’s eyes, his supportive smiles and thumbs up, on his back. Coran tried to go for a handshake, but Keith happily enveloped him into a massive hug, to general laughter and surprise.

Maybe things do change.

-  
“Hands in the middle. We’re doing a cheer! Come on, seriously. Has anyone seen Coran?”

“Lance, oh my god, do you have to? Calm down there, High School Musical”

“GO WILDCATS!” Lance punched the air, before sending Keith a bemused grin. “Go on then, grumpy pants. Give me your hand. We’re a team now, aren’t we?”

Keith rather thought that would make more sense addressed to everybody packed into the smaller dressing room; but, Lance was only looking at him.

-

Five minute call. Everyone was filled with an energy unlike any other; this was the final night. This was all that mattered. They were going to make this the best show in the world, even if it damn well killed them.

Coran was stacking and then restacking programs in the orchestra pit. Hunk was tangled in some wires at the sound booth, chattering nervously to Pidge who had a coffee so huge Keith could see it from the stage. Allura was twisting her plait around and around her hand. Lance had five doughnuts.

Stooping to Keith’s level, he mumbled, “You want one?” around the half-chewed dough in his mouth. There was jam on his chin.

“Go on, then.” Crammed in a corner, closer than was needed, they listened to the chatter of the audience and tucked into cheap-and-nasty doughnuts. It was time.

-

Cynical as it may sound, a part of Keith was a bit sick to death of the play. Standing by for a scene change, he listened to lines he’d heard a thousand times before. And, was that even an exaggeration? It’d been tough. But, it was still impossible to believe that this was the last time ever these words would be spoken.

Keith hoped the audience knew how lucky they were.

By his shoulder, Lance appeared; just in time, to prep for his entrance. He smiled at Keith like they knew each other well. They did.

Lance, shining slightly in his old-fashioned dress coat, drew himself to his fully height; waiting. And, on cue: “Marley was dead, to begin with,” Lance mouthed with a swoop of his arm, all in time with the narrator onstage.

“There is no doubt about that,” Keith whispered back, smiling, smiling wide.

“The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman.” Lance’s little pantomime scribble, head held aloof, eyes twinkling; it had Keith holding his stomach, if only to keep the laughter from bubbling over.

Even backstage, the performance was here. And Keith was the audience.

-

The interval was far more…subdued than normal. Which still wasn’t saying much, as Coran had to come in every minute or so to hush them.

Pidge settled her bum contently beside Keith. Keith barely noticed; too busy looking wistfully at Lance cross-legged on the table, face alight.

He let it all wash over him; a room full of hyped-up, overgrown theatre kids, dancing and screaming and throwing Wine Gums at one another. Normal, if not for their stupid Victorian costumes, which made Rolo tapping away at his iPhone, or Allura showing off her stockinged leg, just that little bit funnier. Wrong, but right.

“You and Lance a thing, then?”

Keith whipped around, horrified, blushing with his frantic denial. “No! No! Definitely not! Aren’t you supposed to stay at the lighting deck?”

Pidge gave him a terrible smirk. “That’s all I needed to hear. Ask him out or something, you know what Allura says. When Christmas and show combine…”

Keith threw a hairbrush at her while she cackled.

-

Lance was onstage, looking at Keith.

It was the final scene; his brain, his logic, his script told him so. But, it felt immortal. Lit with warmth and white; no, they stood before the audience like gods. The stage belonged to them only. Keith was so proud.

Keith locked his eyes with Lance, happy, so happy. From the corner of his eye, the narrator straightened, assessed the audience. Were they ready? Yes.

“And so, as Tiny Tim observed,” Keith mouthed, around silent laughter. “God bless us, every one!”

And.

The future came knocking; just like that, the walls collapsed. With a heaving cheer, the cast rushed offstage, all in a tizzy and a tangle. Keith was pressed up against the ropes, and he couldn’t find space in his heart to care.

Lance found him in the mess, and they looked at each other.

“Come here,” said Lance, and he pressed Keith against him. Embracing amongst sweaty excitement, like something depended on it. Keith felt rawer than he ever had, because this tall, eccentric, irritating boy had touched a tiny part of his soul, and he was glad for it.

“Ready?” said Keith, and pushed Lance on, so Bob Cratchit could get the applause he deserved.

Where would all these people go? How many more times would they reach for the spotlight, tears in their eyes? So many places, so many times were waiting. But never mind; they’d stood here and they’d captured hearts in a mind-blowing, kick-arse show! What an accomplishment.

God, was he proud. He was so, so proud of what they had created. So, so honoured to have been a part of it. And, what Allura what call Christmas spirit lifted off the roof; although, most of the applause was Keith, from his station in the wings.

He counted to ten, let them all believe a second longer that this was forever. Then, he closed the curtain.

-

08: THE VERITY THEATRE, ALMOST MIDNIGHT  
The sky, of course, was littered with stars.

It’s kind of wonderful, how the world cannot let you go to bed without a reminder of the elsewhere. In another life, Keith was lost in that elsewhere, and that filled him with a tender sort of awe.

Two-thousand years ago, in a country far away from here, people had found something in the sky that burnt like an omen. The sky was where every revolution began. Though Keith had never followed religion, tonight he’d believed in something.

Yeah. Tonight had robbed him of his last brain cell, and now he was officially going insane.

Frost bit at his flaming cheeks and it felt a bit like elation. The night air was reality’s tentative reminder; it is normal to be cold. Below and the city arched, lit up with contrived Christmas magic. A quiet kind of joy.

A wave of the mundane rushed over Keith, the way the sea parts around your shoes. He smelt what he’d smelt a thousand times before; chill, petrol, weed, cinnamon, takeaway. Eventually, he’d have to let the wonder of tonight go, and return to the real world that stretched before him.

Just one more second. One more second of believing.

Someone had followed him outside, in his bid to goodbyes. It was Lance, because sometimes things are meant to be.

“We have to go soon. We…we ought to go soon.”

He followed Lance’s wistful gaze to the ‘Stage Door’ sign, worn away from rain and wind. Keith’s adrenaline warmed him thoroughly from deep within his gut, bright as a furnace. “I don’t want it to be over,” said Lance.

Keith smiled, fond, knowing. “Neither do I. But at least we had it for our own.”

Lance sighed, worry twisting his features. “My life isn’t normally like this. Even other shows, they haven’t felt as true as these past few weeks; and, I don’t quite understand why. It’s like everything’s been amplified.”

“Christmas magic?” Keith felt his face buzz and numb.

“You don’t understand. Life’s normally black and white, but tonight is coloured in with spotlights and happy fuzzy feelings. Red and orange and yellow and purple. I don’t want to go back!”

All Keith could do was shake his head, and watch feelings flicker across Lance’s face like starlight.

“I have a present for you,” Lance said flatly, an afterthought.

“Oh?”

Shaking hands. He was fumbling for the clasp of his satchel, the earnest part of his lips impossibly enchanting. Don’t ever change, Lance McClain. Was his face freezing too? Mouth dry, breath hot?

Hot enough to spill out into the chill. Dragon puffs.

“Unwrap it.” Lance handed him a parcel, clumsily sticky-taped. It was tough to rip, the tape tore through and ruined the paper and scraps of tissue floated upwards and into the inky sky.

It was a mug. One of those personalised types you order, type the text, choose your font and colour. It was red, and the text read ‘World’s Best Stage Manager’; in Comic Sans.

He looked at Lance. Then he looked at the mug. Then he looked at Lance again.

Keith kissed him.

Mug still clasped in sweaty hands, preciously, he wrapped his stiff arms around Lance’s body. Desperate, desperate to be closer. Even if it was impossible.

They were burning. Stark against the air, they were burning, and Lance was kissing him back, and their noses were bumping, and Keith couldn’t breathe, and Lance was smiling against his mouth, and it was good.

“Hello,” breathed Lance, laughingly. They were so close, Lance all he could see. A freckle, a scar. His nose was wonky.

“Shut up.” Keith pulled him closer, wrapped arms around his waist. The mug was probably digging into Lance’s side, but he didn’t seem to mind, as he kissed Keith with a feverish craving. Keith’s skin was prickly with nerves, but the slide and the warmth against him was nothing short of addictive. Felt like a reawakening.

Lance kissed like he was a whole new person, like he’d discovered something he needed to share. He tasted of hot, as tongues tend to, and also of the candy cane he’d been gnawing happily backstage half an hour ago.

Keith sighed. He felt full and electric, like he was meant to end up here, somehow. Which was probably stupid. But maybe the stars had aligned, for once.

Oh.

“I’m guessing you like the mug,” offered Lance, grinning. Keith was panting.

“Shut up. I like it very much and it was very thoughtful.” Lance let his fingers card through Keith’s hair, as he frantically tried to remember the last time he washed it. Keith traced Lance’s spine; the pattern, the push of Lance’s ribcage against his all proof he was alive.

“Yeah. That was quite the thank you.” Keith narrowed his eyes and shoved his freezing hands up Lance’s shirt. “Oi!”

Keith legged it, Lance in hot pursuit. So caught up in each other’s smiles, they forgot.

They forgot that this was the happily-ever-after. The end of the end. No more whispering in wings and hairspray in the dressing rooms, no more moments of chaos and peace, no more costumes or spotlights or late nights.

Faraway in the clock tower, the bells sounded midnight. It was tomorrow. The two figures froze, and saw nothing short of the world at their feet. Their gazes snagged.

“Happy Christmas,” said one boy to the other.

“Happy Christmas.”

And they forgot to say their goodbyes.

Far behind, the Verity Theatre still crumbled. Proud against the swimming horizon, full of ghosts and laughter and stories yet to be told. An hour ago, her windows had been brimming with confusion; a cacophony of stories, all the love and the dreaming and the humanity in the world.

They’d gone now. It had been wonderful, unlike anything else; but now, the people who’d laughed and loved were merely Christmas ghosts.

Here was tomorrow. Tomorrow was two boys, descending into whatever loose ends the world still had left for them.

But, maybe it was okay to stand forgotten. After all, it wasn’t the end.  
THE END

**Author's Note:**

> oi thanks for reading
> 
> basically this was all based off the tiny lil crush i had on a theatre boy. eg: pidge asking abt lance is based off my ex girlfriend asking if cute drama boy and i were"linking". i promptly died and am now the ghost of the christmas past. seriously though, i think she found it funny.
> 
> wow! this is the first klance ive posted! its been a nightmare! please make friends with me in the comments, critique and point out errors. 
> 
> again, thank you! happy holidays! Xo❤


End file.
